Savannah’s chin quivered. “Arlo really said that?”

“Every word.”

I rolled my eyes.

He and Echevarria had eaten dinner together the night he died, Marvis said. Chinese food delivered from Johnny Wang’s Golden Dragon Asian Bistro, the same joint on Sherman Way where they ordered in for dinner every week or so. Egg rolls, kung pao beef, twice-cooked pork, pork fried rice. They washed all the MSG down with a pint of Jameson and still had room for fortune cookies. Marvis’s fortune that night had been worth saving, he said. He dug the slip of paper out of his wallet and handed it to Savannah. She read it aloud:

“You will meet a man named Wright. He is often wrong.”

Marvis chuckled. “Wright and wrong. Can you believe that?” Then he began to blubber about how he was probably the last man to have seen Echevarria alive. Soon Savannah was blubbering, too.

I went outside and called Mrs. Schmulowitz to see how she and Kiddiot were doing. A “nice young man” from the insurance company had already been by, she said. He’d informed her that a big check would be mailed to her within two weeks so she could begin rebuilding the garage, Mrs. Schmulowitz said. She’d decided to bake a German chocolate cake in celebration. This brought us to Kiddiot who, she said, was doing more than fine in my absence.

“He got up on the counter and helped himself to a big slice of cake. What kind of crazy meshuggener cat likes German chocolate cake?”

“At least he’s eating.”

I told her I’d be back in Rancho Bonita that afternoon to take him off her hands. No rush, Mrs. Schmulowitz said. She and Kiddiot were getting along fine. She repeated her offer to let me use her sofa, but I’d already inconvenienced her enough, I told her. Mrs. Schmulowitz, however, refused to take no for an answer. She launched into a long dissertation about how her first husband had met a bum on the subway in Brooklyn and insisted that they take him in for a few days until the bum could get on his feet, and how he turned out to be a thief who stole Mrs. Schmulowitz’s silver. There was a beep on my phone. Another call coming in. Mrs. Schmulowitz kept droning on obliviously about how the bum refused to leave after taking one bite of her famous blintzes and my phone kept beeping and Mrs. Schmulowitz kept talking until finally I interjected and told her that I would be happy to finish listening to her story when I saw her in person—“OK, I gotta go, Mrs. Schmulowitz”—and signed off.

Detective Ostrow at Rancho Bonita PD was on the other line, coughing and apologizing for sounding like he was about to hack up a lung. He’d been out surfing that morning before work, he said, when a big roller broke the wrong way and he gulped a bellyful of seawater — a “Neptune cocktail” as he put it.

“Gnarly,” I said.

He asked me if I knew anyone who drove a white Honda or possibly a Toyota of the same color, with tinted windows and a spoiler on the back. A couple of neighbors, he said, had seen a vehicle matching that description cruising the alley behind Mrs. Schmulowitz’s garage an hour or so before the firebombing.

I told him about my various close encounters with the mysterious Honda. And, no, I said, anticipating his next question, I didn’t catch the license plate number.

“Well, whoever he is, we’ll find him eventually,” Ostrow said. “That’s the cool thing about being a cop in a community like Rancho Bonita where the crime rate isn’t through the roof. We actually get to investigate stuff, unlike LAPD. Speaking of which, I called Detective Czarnek. He hasn’t called me back.”

“I’ll yank his chain next time I talk to him, which may or may not be in this millennium.” Ostrow urged me to have a great day. I told him to hang ten.

“You’d never know it to look at him,” Savannah said, as she emerged from Marvis’s house, “but that man is a very sensitive soul. He scheduled a session with me so I could teach him a few tools on grief-coping. Sometimes I think I could use some of those tools myself.” She gazed wistfully at the house next door where Echevarria had lived.

“I can catch a cab to the bus station if you want to stand here all day and reminisce.”

Savannah’s eyes flashed. “Does being so insensitive come to you naturally, Logan, or do you work at it?”

An acrid something surged up from my gut and burned the back of my throat. The taste of shame. Instead of affording my ex-wife a modicum of empathy, as any compassionate human being would’ve done under similar circumstances, I’d reverted to the jilted and jealous ex-husband. I needed to work on my Chi or I was coming back as a snail in the next life for sure.

“I’m sorry for being a jerk, Savannah.”

“I’ve come to expect nothing less. Get in. I’ll drive you to the bus station.”

“Look, I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. How about I spring for dinner and we call it even? You can drive me to the bus station after that.”

Savannah turned her head and looked through me with those eyes.

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “I never have.”

TWENTY-THREE

Savannah wanted to eat at the Chinese restaurant that had delivered Echevarria’s last meal. No problem, I said. I wanted to show her how completely unfazed I was by her pining after the man for whom she’d left me. All modesty aside, my performance deserved an Oscar.

Johnny Wang’s Golden Dragon Asian Bistro was sandwiched in a strip mall between a Vietnamese nail salon and a storefront for Madam Magdala, Fortune Teller to Hollywood Stars. A sign hung in the madam’s window that said “Closed,” next to another sign that said, “Walk-ins always welcomed.”

“Why keep regular business hours,” I said as we got out of Savannah’s car, “if you know in advance when your next customer’s coming in?”

Savannah didn’t feel much like talking.

Seating inside Johnny Wang’s was configured like a coach car on a passenger train. Ten booths, five along each wall, bisected by a broad aisle leading to a kitchen in the back. Every booth was empty. An elderly Chinese man who looked like he could be somebody named Johnny Wang was perched on a stool behind the door, reading a Mandarin-language newspaper. He smiled at us as we walked in and gestured.

“Anywhere you like.”

I followed Savannah past an aquarium built into the wall. The glass was fuzzy green with algae. The koi inside had grown too large for the tank. The fish crowded together, barely moving, fan tails swaying anemically in the filthy, bubbling water. I felt bad for them. We took the last booth in the back on the right. I sat facing the door.

An aging waitress with a heavily creased face who looked like she could be somebody named Mrs. Johnny Wang ferried a dented tin teapot with a bamboo handle and two cloisonné cups to our table. She was wearing a white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie with a tuxedo vest, and black trousers.

“You very pretty,” Mrs. Wang said.

“Why, thank you,” I said.

“I mean her.”

“You’re very kind,” Savannah said.

“You like something drink maybe? Beer? Wine?”

“I’m fine with water,” Savannah said.

“Water’s good for me, too — as long as it’s not from the aquarium.”

Mrs. Wang handed us menus. A young Asian man of about twenty with spiked hair and a Van Halen T-shirt emerged from the kitchen and asked her a question in Mandarin. She responded curtly. They began yelling at each other in their native tongue, arguing as if we were not present. Pretty soon Johnny Wang was yelling, too. They were all yelling.

“Knock it off!”

They stopped, startled by my outburst.

“The Buddha doesn’t like arguing,” I said. “It’s not conducive to bliss.”

“My grandson, Benjamin, he no like the hard work!” Mrs. Wang complained.

“I go to school full-time!”

“Ooohhh, Mr. Cal Tech. You think you so fancy! School no hard work. School easy! Restaurant, that hard work!” She started yelling at him in Mandarin again.